She was white
And that's not to say she was plain
I saw her as a Martha to her Mary
Always floating about in her duties
So straight and proper to the eye
But one wonders
In the chambers of her heart
What color made her beautiful
When you didn't want her to be
She laughs when she's supposed to
But to the trained eye sometimes,
When she's not
She was white
She was straight
But who could bend her light
And make her a rainbow?
And I think as my pulse pounds
My hands tingle
My forehead is so warm I cannot sleep
And I can't say her name
Without saying a smile
Maybe she already is

May 25, 2005, 12:36am Copyright 2005 Michael Paul